


The Night Overtakes Us

by Whreflections



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BDSM, Daddy Kink, Exhibitionism, F/M, Full Shift Werewolves, Gangbang, M/M, True Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 08:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: They were a few years apart, and never in the same circles, but Stiles grew up taking note of Derek Hale.  If he's remembered each time he saw him a little more than would be strickly normal- well, Stiles has always been a curious person.  He retains information.No chance meeting, though, has been as curious as seeing Derek at a BDSM club after he's been two years gone from Beacon Hills, the reluctant heir to the Hale pack having drifted back with little public notice for someone who left under such scrutiny.Then again, maybe it isn't really chance after all.  Maybe it never has been.





	The Night Overtakes Us

**Author's Note:**

> This is, first and foremost, for my friend who was very patient in introducing me to the whole 'daddy Dom' thing XD I've talked for years about how fandom erodes boundaries and for me this has been so very true multiple times...daddy kink was a place I never ever ever thought I would venture, but that's changed now and I'm really glad for it, because it's adorable, and there's some excellent stories to be read. 
> 
> So, this is a gift to make her smile...and honesetly I didn't plan to post it until it was finished, but it grew a plot while I was working on it and it's going to be a little longer than originally expected, so I've decided to share it as it goes. I hope you all enjoy it, too.

Stiles had become very well versed in werewolf. He’d had to, these last few years, ever since Scott had taken the bite. He hadn’t planned for it, but when his asthma had worsened sophomore year and it came down to the stark reality of breathing or not breathing, the choice hadn’t been difficult for him to make. He woke up with new lungs and new eyes and a whole new set of body language vocabulary for Stiles to add to the internal dictionary of Scott he’d been building since they were in kindergarten.

Given how well he already knew Scott, it wasn’t hard to add a little more.

All of that knowledge gave him, among other things, more time to react—he knew when Scott was too close to being a danger to himself; he knew the moment he’d scented Kira walking into the house. He hadn’t been the best, at first, at identifying new scents, even of his own kind but he was getting there—and it was that specific hesitation that Stiles could feel in him just then.

His arm had gone stiff next to Stiles’, his breathing shifting to a peculiar tempo both sharp and long, breathing deep and heavy, and Stiles knew a wolf he didn’t know had walked in. Given their surroundings, it wasn’t exactly surprising.

Stiles shoved at Scott’s arm with his elbow, his drink sloshing just a tad over his fingers. “Easy, c’mon. You should be used to that, here.” This was, after all, a club with no species restrictions; people came here not just for the kink but the mingling, and the convergence of kink and mingling. If you wanted to be fucked by a werecat half shifted you’d find someone willing, if you kept coming back long enough. In Scott’s case, he could come here with Kira, and she could use her power on him in a back room suited for kitsune, and she wouldn’t blow out a breaker if her control started to slip.

They didn’t come too often, just here and there for light kink and convenience—or, like they had tonight, they came so Scott could worry about Stiles. There was, really, no other way to describe it. He didn’t want to watch, and he sure as hell didn’t want to participate, but if something new was going down he wanted to be there, ready to intervene. It was charming, in the way Scott often was—a dash of charm, and a heap of fond irritation.

He didn’t need Scott glowering and huffing outside the room his scene was happening in, threatening away a few possible participants just by his presence, but Scott needed to do it, needed to feel like he was doing something to protect Stiles in a situation he couldn’t fully understand, and Spencer didn’t mind it, so Stiles let him.

Tonight, with Stiles having his first scene out in the open, in the main room of the second floor, it wasn’t surprising that Scott was a little more on edge than normal. It was, though, a bit surprising that being elbowed had done absolutely nothing to change the tension in him; he was gripping the bar so tight it was wonder he hadn’t sprouted claws, his eyes fixed with an unblinking thousand yard stare past the bar and the bulk of the room to the back entrance.

“It’s different; he smells—“ Scott shook his head, breathed deep like he was trying to clear the air, and test it again. “Strong. Not like an alpha, but—I don’t know. It’s different; it’s just different.”

“Different as in ‘not a wolf’ or different as in he’s fucking the alpha and his scent’s all—“ Stiles set down his drink to waggle his fingers in the air, half in front of Scott’s eyes. Still scanning the crowd, Scott didn’t notice. “Scott, c’mon; you’re gonna creep someone out, and if you get kicked out you won’t be here while it’s happening and you’ll feel guilty and that—“

Even with the strength of Scott’s reaction, Stiles hadn’t expected to notice a damned thing scanning the crowd for himself. At any given moment, as much as certain people of both species might have argued otherwise, most wolves just looked like people. At a glance, in their human form, a shifter was just like anyone else to human senses. He’d expected to see a sea of people milling around, watching scenes and drifting off down hallways and wandering toward the bar, but he hadn’t expected that in the midst of all that his eyes would catch on a face he couldn’t help but recognize; one that explained everything.

Stiles hand closed over Scott’s arm, digging in hard enough to shake him a little. “Dude, holy shit, that’s Derek Hale!”

He was a half a room away and Stiles had only caught him in snatches of his face through the crowd, but it was him, unmistakably; there was no question. Stiles had seen that face too many times on TV, in local papers, scowling out from a picture in a file spread out on the kitchen table.  In person, a handful of times he couldn't help but remember.

Once, crying in his dad’s office, but that one—that one he tried to forget he’d seen.

Scott’s head tilted, his face screwed up like he was trying to shove disparate pieces together to make the image make sense. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure; how are you not sure? Don’t you remember when he and his sister came to that pep rally? We were in 6th grade; he looked murderous.”

They had, even then as high school seniors, been more than local superstars. It was years and years ago now, a point in time when Stiles had been a scrawny kid into history and magic, still very much not handling his mother’s death and eager to ignore how much his dad was drinking. The Hale twins were household names in Beacon Hills, captains of the boys and girls basketball teams, heirs to a pack whose territory protected one of the most supernaturally active areas on the west coast. There had been talk, back then, that the two of them might break with precedent and share the title of alpha of the Hale pack someday, but then not long after their graduation Talia had announced that Laura was to be her successor, Derek his sister’s right hand beta.

When she was found ripped apart in the woods five years later, the headlines had dominated the news for months, and his dad had carried a look of perpetual exhaustion from October to next August. The case remained open, still, and his dad looked it over now and then, but there never had been enough evidence, and there wasn’t likely to ever be. Without evidence, the court of public opinion had turned against Derek, and in a way, Stiles could get it—he did have a way of looking ten seconds away from snapping someone’s neck in most pictures and public appearances. The truth was, though, that even though he’d been the one to find her body and even though he seemed on paper to stand the most to gain, his alibi was rock solid, and he’d been immediately cleared.

He’d also handled her death like a grieving twin not a guilty man, but he’d never done anything to speak up for himself, and he kept largely out of the Hale family limelight, so no one really knew that. Just his fellow Hales, presumably, and the detective who’d worked the case and taken his first statements, and his son who’d been on the way to bring his dad lunch and absolutely should not have seen any of it, but did anyway.

Scott breathed deep, presumably reanalyzing now that he had more information. “Maybe that’s it—maybe because he’s a born wolf and his mother’s the alpha?”

On the other side of him, Kira was standing on the tips of her toes, peering around the bar and over the crowd. “I can’t believe he’s here! Can you imagine if this got out?! ‘Hale heir accused of murder is a practicing sadist’? “

“We don’t know he’s a sadist—“ Stiles had to counter, he had to, especially with Scott’s eyes going all dangerously maroon at the edges. All the same he couldn’t help but clarify, glancing back into the crowd for another glimpse of him as he did. He wasn’t in leather; he didn’t carry a whip or a bag of equipment. He wasn’t naked, either, but then, neither was Stiles, at this point in the night. There wasn’t anything ostensibly about him that could have been said to scream one dynamic above the other, unless you took it all in together—his presence, even from across the room. The set of shoulders; the way he held his head. Even something in his nearly half unbuttoned shirt and the way he’d rolled his sleeves held the kind of casual confidence found in someone used to power, not submission.

He might be a sadist and he might not, but he wasn’t a switch, and he wasn’t a sub. Stiles might not have perfect gaydar, always, but he wasn’t wrong about this part, hardly ever. After all, he’d been the one that knew Scott would be willing to sub a little for Kira, even with the whole ‘true alpha’ thing he had going on.

Stiles sipped his tequila sunrise, and nodded toward him, leaning into the bar on the other side, now, far enough away not to be heard. “We just know he’s a dom, because I mean, look at him. He’s textbook ‘Hello, daddy’; it just isn’t always the same thing.”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Scott muttered, though he finally blinked, finally sipped his beer. “Everyone here knows what he’s like.”

“No, everyone here knows he got reamed in the press for finding his sister’s dead body—which should have been punishment enough in itself for the crime of having a shitty attitude. I’m not amazed he’s here—well, I mean, obviously I hardly ever expect anyone I’ve seen in real life to show up here here; this place is like the Twilight Zone. I’m just shocked he’s come back to Beacon Hills at all. Last I heard he’d left town.”

He’d left before the investigation even died down, though Stiles knew because he’d heard his father mention it that he called every now and then from wherever it was he’d vanished to, checking for leads. Two years gone, and he showed back up in Beacon Hills now, at a BDSM club?

It was true that Stiles had never known him, not really; they’d never even exchanged more than a hanful of words, but something about seeing him here, now, when he had vanished so wholly was like seeing a mirage.

“I don’t trust him. If he doesn’t stay away from you—“ Scott started, a growl building low in his chest until Stiles slapped at him. Physically ineffective, maybe, but Scott stopped anyway—though that might have had something to do with Kira gripping his arm in a sudden death grip, too.

“Jesus, no, okay? Open scene means open scene; it’s what I’m here for.” Stiles glanced across the bar again, unable to resist. Derek had whiskey in a tumbler in his hand, sipping slow. The V of his partially open shirt gaped, baring skin and a hint of dark hair. The glass looked small in his hands. Stiles’ chest felt tight, and he licked his lips reflexively. “If he wants to join, let him join. I wouldn’t hate it.”

Derek settled his glass down, and looked across, their eyes meeting for a moment so solidly and improbably that Stiles would have sworn he’d heard, somehow. He couldn’t have; he couldn’t—this place was made for shifter traffic. Between the sigils worked into the very walls of this place to dampen sound and the noise, it just wasn’t possible. He’d scented Scott, maybe—but he wasn’t looking at Scott, and—

Stiles jumped under Spencer’s hand, pressed sudden and firm between his shoulders.

“Come on; it’s ready.”

*****

On the drive to the Grotto, Stiles had tapped his fingers on his knees and against the glass and reminded himself that this was, fundamentally, not much different from scenes he had done before. He had been used, before; he had been tied up and fucked and tortured and overstimulated and in general treated like a plaything at least a dozen times, now, and he’d loved almost all of those experiences. There hadn’t been much to worry him—and given what he was into, maybe that was a surprise, or maybe it wasn’t. He’d tried his best to tell his dad in the first harrowingly awkward conversation that they’d had about this lifestyle that it wasn’t all dungeons with terrifying chains and creepy, leering men.

It was, on occasion, exactly that, but it was other things, too, and the good experiences Stiles had had here outweighed the bad. He had a lot to look forward to this evening, and he knew that...but still, still, it was new, and his heart was hammering hard in his chest. He’d been a plaything before, sure, but it had been different. It was one thing to be holed up in a semiprivate room, with the men who came to join the scene either having been directly invited or stumbled on it looking for something a little more out of the way than the open scenes in the common areas. It was something completely other to be put on display out here, in front of everyone, offered up like a choice piece of meat or a pet who’d done well enough to merit showing off in public. He wasn’t entirely sure which analogy was more apt, but both made his cock twitch.

Spencer had stripped him, first, and placed the collar on him second—it was always like that, only staking his claim when the scene itself was beginning, a reminder for both of them that Stiles was only his responsibility for the next two hours. Whether or not that hurt, or whether or not he was okay with it, were questions to ask himself back in his own bed. He’d been asking them for six months now, and he’d be asking them again—but sometime in the next two hours, for just a bit his mind would go clear and quiet, and he’d have more pleasure and pain that his body knew what to do with. It would be enough, for now.

The collar was black leather, soft and old, cracking at the buckle from age, and use. He wondered, sometimes, who had worn it before him, and who would wear it after.

Stiles tested the cuffs on his wrists, holding him spread on an enormous St. Andrews cross. They were so tight he could barely move, so tight he was sure they’d been pulled all the way snug—but no, as soon as he thought it, Spencer was pulling, ratcheting them higher, and higher, until he yelped in nervous surprise, his toes just barely kicking against the ground.

From behind him, his dom chuckled, and Stiles could hear the sounds of rope being tightened. “You only have to hold like this for just a minute; I know you can do it longer than that.”

He could, and he had, but he was still both relieved and full of fresh anxiety when Spencer moved around to the front, lifting his legs one by one to slid his foot into a leather stirrup, and bind his ankles and calves tight. He was, immobile, nearly, but his thighs and biceps could still feel the strain. In an hour, they’d more than feel it; in two, he’d be shaking all over.

His cock twitched, already near fully hard and hanging, ignored at first when Spencer approached him to slide a lubed plug into his ass. He’d followed his instructions, stretching well in preparation for tonight, and the plug slid in easy, a twist of Spencer’s wrist setting it vibrating. Stiles shifted, and the base hit the wood behind him, both jolting it a little deeper into him and making an absolutely obvious sound.

Stiles could feel his cheeks flush, almost in perfect time to a bubble of laughter from his right. His thighs had gone rigid, strong enough, for now, to keep his ass free of the board.

In front of him, Spencer stroked his cock perfunctorily, gloved to increase both the humiliation, and the distance. Stiles would be of little interest to him, until he’d been thoroughly had, until he was down and drifting. The cock ring slipped onto his cock, fitting snug at the base, tighter still with each pass of Spencer’s fingers.

He let go, and snapped the glove off his hand, looking up to meet his sub’s eyes. “Well? I think you’re ready, don’t you?” He was as stunning as he always was, like this. Bare chested, green eyes like the color of the sea, thick red hair with just a little wave when Stiles had the chance to run his fingers through it. He was tall, and thin and lithe rather than broad, but strong enough to lift Stiles when he needed to. He would have been nothing special to some men, maybe, but Stiles had worked to catch his eye from the moment he first came here as a 19 year old kid and saw him tying a boy up that couldn’t have been more than Stiles own age. His hands on the knots had been so sure, his focus absolute.

God, those eyes on him were always piercing.

Stiles nodded, swallowing heavy. His cock bobbed, throbbing in his eagerness against the pressure of the ring. “Yes, sir. Ready.”

While Spencer had bound him to the cross, a collection of onlookers had gathered. Some, Stiles recognized; others he didn’t. Every one of them looked hungry, or at least mildly curious. If he looked to the bar, he knew he’d still have been able to find Scott, turned away, but close enough to scent him in trouble. For all that Stiles complained about his hovering, it was a comfort.

On the post alongside the bench where he’d left his two open bags of equipment, Spencer placed the sign. Stiles couldn’t read it, now, but he knew what it said. He’d agreed to it, after all. His pulse jumped, and he watched the eyes of the observers go to it, their eyes passing over the lines—

 _Men only_  
_Anything in the bags, do what you want  
Anything else, ask_

Two women drifted away, caught in the corner of his eye; three men stepped up to peruse the bags, another approached Spencer. The noise of the club was all around him, a mass of sound, and they were too far away from Stiles to hear. It was easier for him to swallow, and flex his hands, and wait—and easier to search the crowd than to look at the men rummaging through the bags and see what was coming for him.

Beyond the immediate crowd, on the near side of the bar, the seat where Derek Hale had sat was empty, but Stiles' dismay didn’t have time to take root. He hadn’t wandered far, but he had stood, and turned. His whiskey was still in hand, and he was well beyond what could properly be called Stiles audience, but he was watching. He was watching.

*****

In the first fifteen minutes, Stiles had gained clamps on his nipples, a thin chain hanging between them.

By a half hour, he’d been fucked twice from behind, the plug replaced after the second time with a larger one because the first kept falling out no matter how he tried to hold it. There was too much lube; his hole too fluttery, and he’d felt the first sting of tears of frustration gathering at the corners of his eyes, his breath coming hard and fast.

At 45 minutes, his thighs trembled furiously under a flogger that he was used to feeling on his back or his ass, but not here, not the tender skin on the inside of his thighs where his muscles already quivered. He could hear his own cries, high and keening, feel his balls drawing up tight when his skin was petted after the strikes had stopped.

It was a dom he’d never seen before, one he wouldn’t have known for a wolf at all if he hadn’t gone to his knees and licked Stiles there, bitten him hard enough to draw a little blood just there where his skin was flushed. He had enough strength in his arms, still, to jerk, and whine, but the laps of the man’s tongue that followed had his cock dripping, and there was no denying to himself or anyone watching just how much he liked it.

“He is a proper bitch, isn’t he?"

“Takes it all and likes it.”

“You’ve done a good job with him, but he’s too noisy—“ “No, no, I want to hear it; I like a sub that screams—“ “Has he ever taken a fist? Ever taken a knot?”

An hour in, halfway through, and Stiles had come with a vibrator pressed to the head of his cock, and hot wax being poured across his asscheeks. He’d begged for it, cried for it, and the pleasure/pain mixture of the burn and the vibrator had somehow both heightened the orgasm and left him still wanting.

At an hour and fifteen, his thighs shook so hard the pain was a constant force in his mind, their quivering incessant. There was a hand petting his stomach and another in his ass, another sliding two fingers into his mouth. He closed his eyes and sucked and shivered and ached, and there was nothing, nothing in his head but sensation and silence.

He lost track of time, after that.

*****

Stiles eyes were closed, his head tilted back, baring his throat. The last dom had liked that; he’d bitten him, there, above and below the collar, and rubbed come into his chest. Stiles could feel it drying, and the bruises growing. Even to his human nose he smelled like sex, and sweat, and something that might have been blood. Some time ago, someone had tired of his cries or the occasional chatter he couldn’t prevent no matter how well Spencer trained him, and they’d gagged him, a small dildo resting against his tongue, now, encouraging him to suck. There had to be drool on his chin. He had to be a mess.

“—hadn’t planned on untying him until his time was up.” Spencer’s voice caught his ear, closer, now, and carrying. Rather than whine, Stiles sucked. If it wasn’t time, it wasn’t time. All his pains had evened out.

“Just his legs; he won’t be able to move them. I’ll hold him up.” Stiles was, in his haze, both certain and not at all certain that he knew that voice. It was familiar like a dream after waking, like déjà vu. Real, and unreal. Known, and unknown.

“Alright. You’ll be the last.”

The sounds of the club mingled, sounds of shoes on the floor and Spencer collecting toys, and the stride of an unfamiliar man approaching on the concrete floor. Stiles' eyes cracked open, his head rolling just a little to the side, resting on his arm.

He saw Derek Hale, and tried again.

He closed his eyes, and opened them wider, and he was closer, this time, reaching behind Stiles to unfasten to gag and tug it free. Spit clung to it, but he broke the connection with his wrist, and stroked Stiles’ mouth clean, and didn’t seem to mind. His hands were just as big as they’d looked across the bar; bigger. His thumbs pressed into the hinges of Stiles jaw, rubbing out the hurt, and Stiles moaned like he would have hours ago for a hand on his cock.

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed, and Stiles had the fleeting thought, even in his echoing mind, that he looked as angry, now, as he’d looked at 18.

“Safeword?”

Stiles stretched his jaw, swallowed and felt strange without the dildo on his tongue. Automatically, his eyes cut to Spencer, zipping up a bag on the bench, until Derek tapped his cheek, and brought Stiles’ eyes back to his.

“I didn’t ask if he knows it; I’m asking you. What’s your safeword?”

It had been a while, since he’d used it, and a while, too, since anyone had asked. Mostly, they assumed Spencer was listening, and mostly he was.

“Sunflower.” He slurred, a little, and though both his eyes and Derek’s flicked to Spencer, he hadn’t reacted. Too low to hear, likely; it was loud. A muscle in Derek’s jaw twitched. Stiles wanted to lick it.

“You don’t mind being bitten?” There was something, there, in his hesitance or his eyes that might have made the question awkward, but Stiles was too far gone.

“Not unless it’s, you know, with the red eyes and the probable dying—but I’ll call you alpha, sir, I can—“

“Don’t call me alpha.” Derek’s hands were on his hips, steadying him as he reached behind him and pulled free the knotted dildo that had been lodged in him for God only knew how long, now. it slipped free with a wet sound, and Stiles’ shoulders sagged with a combination of emptiness and relief.

“Thank you, sir.” His voice was rusty, a little, but at least he hadn’t been sucking cock yet, tonight; only screaming. “Do I call you sir?”

Derek’s palm pressed to his right thigh, firm enough to keep the muscle from seizing up as he loosened the buckle, firm enough to hold him in place with a single goddamn hand and damn, if that wasn’t sexy as all fucking hell.

“You can call me sir, if you want.”

“Master? Too pretentious—are you sure you don’t—“

“I am absolutely sure I don’t want you to call me alpha, yes.” There was irritation in his voice, but not in his hands. They massaged Stiles' thigh so good and deep that his mouth could at first only drop open, his breath coming shallow. When everything hurt and everything felt good and he was floating in the excellent haze of it, it was hard to realize how much it really would hurt when it was over.

Shifting right, Derek began the process all over again, palm to left thigh, free hand down to the buckle on his calf.

“Fuck, that’s so good, D—“ _Derek_. He’d almost said it. Stiles swallowed, his head blurring. He knew his name; of course he knew his name, but now wasn’t the time to say it. Even in this state, he knew that, would have known it from the way Derek’s hand twitched if nothing else. Stiles shook his head, pressing on. “Daddy? Too familiar?”

For a moment, Derek only rubbed his thigh, deep, firm presses, but then his head was shaking. “You have one.”

“My dom? No, he’s—sir is—he’s not. He’s Spencer.” As if, somehow, this explained everything. In the fuzziness of Stiles mind, it did. “So it isn’t too familiar?”

“Sir will do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a good boy.” Derek’s hand raked through his hair, once and again, a simple reward to follow the praise. It was painfully simple, so fucking simple, but it wasn’t Spencer’s style, and most doms out to fuck a toy like Stiles didn’t treat him like they would have their own sub—and that was fine, really, it was part of the draw in a way, but that didn’t mean that this didn’t hold an attraction of its own, one that left Stiles warm down to his toes.

He groaned, his back and neck arching, tired cock twitching. Every inch of him was so fucking tired, and still, he wanted. “Are you going to give me your cock, sir? Please, please I want it; I’m so empty—“

Derek hitched his legs up, wrapped them tight around his waist and God, it was effortless for him. There was a strange disconnect both scorchingly hot and vaguely terrifying in the fact that he literally couldn’t move his own legs, but it didn’t matter, because Derek could hold him up. He didn’t have to wrap his legs around his waist, didn’t have to try. He was all but paralyzed from the thighs down, and he was going to be fucked anyway.

Stiles dick pressed wet against Derek’s shirt, the fabric chafing against the raw insides of his thighs. “You’ll take my cock, and my bite, and you’re going to come from both like a good boy, aren’t you?”

Despite all he’d been through, Stiles was absolutely sure that yes, yes there was no way that wasn’t going to happen. He nodded, tired, and Derek shifted his grip, and started to fuck him.

The pace wasn’t punishing, but he was so raw and fucked open that he both moved too easy and just right in Stiles, slipping quick and jabbing rough against his too sensitive prostate. His cock bounced between them, his shoulders straining, but even in his exhaustion it felt too good to regret. He could catch no nuances to it, but the wild, wolf scent of Derek was rich, and strong, and sexy, as much so as the huff of his breath as he nuzzled into Stiles neck, the pain of blunted, human fingernails as they raked against the sore skin on his ass.

Stiles cock pulsed, trailing precome across his own belly, and Stiles meant to tug with his arms, to rattle his bonds. He wasn’t at all sure anything moved, beyond the roll of his body with the force of Derek’s thrusts, moved only by his strength.

Stiles swallowed, stretching, twisting his neck to bare before Derek’s hot breath the other side, the unbitten side. “Sir, sir, please; I’m close, please—“

With a growl so deep and gutteral Stiles could feel it rattle him, Derek turned his head, and bit down fierce and rough on the left side. His hips snapped hard, but Stiles hardly needed it; he’d been trained well, now, to come when the pleasure and pain mingled so strong neither could be taken out from the other.

Without even looking, though, he was absolutely sure exactly where Derek and bitten him, sure it had covered the bite the other wolf had left, before.

In the aftermath, his brain fuzzed out entirely, the white noise from orgasm layered against the static of subspace. Even the pain in his arms as they were let down hadn’t brought him out of it; he was still drifting, only just beginning to surface to the realization that he wasn’t kneeling.

Spencer always, always brought him out kneeling—half the time, he started to surface with a cock in his mouth.

This time, now, he could feel that he was cradled, laid out along a warm body that held him tight, his back to their chest. He could feel their heartbeat, their breath against his hair—and Spencer was watching him, crouched down, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

“Hey, pet. I think we were a little a too ambitious, with this one. Your thighs wouldn’t hold you.”

Somewhere, the vague memory of voices disagreeing drifted back to him, of his knees touching concrete, his thighs giving like Jello.

Unwanted, tears clouded his vision and he blinked, twice and again until he felt the corners of his eyes wiped clean. All that Spencer ever wanted from him at the end of a public scene was to make use of Stiles mouth, rough and quick, spilling out all the need pent up while he watched Stiles take as many men as would have him. One thing, one payment for giving Stiles this opportunity, and hadn’t been able to give it.

“Sir—Spencer, I’m sorry; I’m sorry I didn’t—“

The body behind him shifted, and a flicker of something that looked like annoyance—or worse—passed through Spencer’s eyes. There and gone, like smoke, but not aimed at Stiles. For him, he smooth his hand against his cheek, petted down to stroke over his collar, down to his chest.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, pet. We’ll talk about it when it’s all over, okay? I’ll just be right over there—“ There, it seemed, was a lounge chair a dozen feet away, or so, with a boy already kneeling at the end of it. Leashed, and waiting. “And you’ll lay right here until you’re ready to go home. Unless you need me to stay?”

Stiles eyes burned, still, the feeling of failure and shame thick and hot in his chest, but…it wouldn’t be any better, really, if he didn’t let Spencer go and get what he needed, not after he’d failed to give it, and—

And. Even with his tears still coming, his breathing quickened, the steady pace of the heartbeat against his back hadn’t changed, and the hand rubbing small circles against his stomach hadn’t, either. Neither one of those was Spencer, and he wondered for a moment how he could have ever suspected they would be, even in that first moment he’d begun to come back to himself.

Spencer took care of him, sure, but always in his place, on his knees, never splayed out across his chest like this, like….like…

“It’s fine; I’ve got him. I don’t think he’s dropping; he’s just upset.”

“He isn’t dropping; he hasn’t dropped in months.”

“I’ve got him.” Derek sounded gruff, and final, and familiar now in an entirely new way. He had felt Derek’s growl in his chest, felt it against his skin when he bit down. It was…intimate. That wasn’t a word that could often be used for what he did here, in this place.

Spencer kissed his forehead, and walked away to have his cock sucked by another boy, and even though he wasn’t usually jealous, with Spencer, he turned his eyes away and toward the back of the couch, and found Derek’s shoulder instead.

Derek’s hand cradled the back of his head, his thumb digging in in gentle circles near the base of his skull.

“He’s not mad at you; you didn’t do anything wrong. You were so good; I know. I watched the whole thing. You were so good, Stiles.”

It should have been strange, really, but he was bone tired, and shaky, and the praise washed over him like hot water. It didn’t matter, then, that he didn’t ever remember giving Derek his name.


End file.
